Not I Alone
by GirlonaBridge
Summary: An alternate version of Taking Leave, written by my other half who doesn't have an ff account so she asked me to post it. Harry goes travelling, six months after Ruth leaves Thames House and fate takes a hand.
1. Chapter 1

Ν. Μπαρμπατσέα Εκπαιδευτικού, Stoupa, Greece

June 6th, 2007

10am

Stoupa, Greece. A small tourist town, beginning to buzz in the morning light. Earlier, he had watched the local Papas retreat from the all night taverna, to say Matins in the small Church, with a suspiciously red nose. _Definitely unmarried_. The beach had been thoroughly combed by little old women all dressed in black, who had then shuffled off to their souvenir booths and tavernas. _Community spirit at its best_. The ever deepening hue of the azure harbour, underneath the rising sun, contrasted sharply with the golden sands and the starkly shadowed rocks to the right, and the brightly painted fishing boats to the left. A trickle of visitors made their way to the loungers laid out in readiness; the season had not yet fully begun.

In the middle of all this, Harry took a seat at a small cafe opposite the promenade. Dressed in a (slightly rumpled) cream linen suit, white shirt open at the neck, and wide brimmed panama hat, he was the quintessential English Gentleman on holiday. It was hardly the 'Grand Tour' he had dreamed of, but a journey down the Peloponnese could be completed 'solus ipse' without too much melancholy - or suspicion in work. Visiting the great sites of Olympus, Mystras and Ithomi had been interesting, although he had wished for a better knowledge of Classics - and even more so for a suitable companion with said learning. He had called by Kardamyli, and the home of the adventurer Patrick Leigh Fermor, and spent an enjoyable afternoon in that veteran's company. A perfectly innocent holiday.

The waitress deposited his coffee in front of him with a pleasant smile.

"Ef̱charistó̱".

People watching without a backup team round the corner. Two women in their sixties passed by with a lanky boy dangling goggles and a snorkel. A young woman, clearly Greek, stopped to chat with the waitress. Various locals passed in and out of the small grocery shop next door. A group of girls, late teens, running for the beach. A blonde, blue-eyed, highly bronzed young family strolled along, the children dancing round their parents heels. _So many different lives, so many possibilities_. A swish of a long dark skirt caught his eye. It's owner was carrying a wicker basket, and paused a moment to remove her sunglasses, before entering the shop. A strand of nut brown hair escaped the shady hat she wore.

It was twenty minutes before she reappeared on the verandah of the shop, chatting in fluent Greek to an older woman for a few minutes. As she crossed the road and stood on the promenade, leaning against the railing looking out to sea, he dropped the cost of the drink beside the empty cup, and silently joined her, elbows resting lightly on the metal bar, just inches away from her hands.

"It's a beautiful morning." Out of the corner of his eye he saw her jump, slightly, and heard the swift intake of breath. Neither looked at the other.

"Yes, not that I was expecting it. The forecast is for a storm."

"A slight reprieve, perhaps."

"It will come. Are you visiting?"

"Yes. I had a good friend and colleague who spoke highly of this area, so much so that I thought I should see what she was going on about. Naively, I forgot that her knowledge of Classics would have informed her view. I can't say I know much about the subject." He risked a glance across at her, drinking in the ivory skin, sensitive lips, and dark eyelashes sitting on dusky cheeks. A slight smile played about her mouth as she paused to find the words of her response.

"Perhaps the experience will be an inspiration to learn."

"I'd have to find the right teacher." Another small smile, and as he turned his gaze back to the harbour, he thought he caught her head turning towards him - but when he looked back, she was resolutely staring at the fishing boats.

"Do you live here?"

"For now. It's a good spot for those of us interested in Classics. Mystras, Ithomi, Gythio, Olympus, all within easy travel distance. Are you staying long?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Oh, you know... I was just travelling down the country as the mood took me, stopping at places that seem interesting. I've spent ten days so far, and my leave is up at the end of the month."

"And now?"

"To be honest, I'm a little sick of plodding round archeological sites with utterly no understanding of the culture I'm looking at. It would be far more interesting in the company of the right person." A nod, a shrug, a smile. Her fingers fidgeting with the wicker handle of her basket.

"Or, I could just extend my stay at the hotel here, if the company proved...alluring."

"This is a dream."

"Then it is a good dream." She stifled a laugh, lifting her hand to cover the grin.

"So, this storm - will it be a big one? I love a good thunder and lightening show."

"Oh, yes... They roll down off the mountains, or in from the sea, and are fantastically intense, for an hour or so. Then they blow away, leaving me quite bereft."

"Sounds like something to experience, preferably without the company of a hundred tourists. Do you know a good vantage point?"

"As it happens, I do."

"Well then, miss... I'm sorry, I don't know your name - but would you like to go for a walk?" She turned fully towards him, head bowed, fingers lightly brushing his for just a moment.

"I'd love to. Go for a walk, that is. With you." The eyelashes lifted to reveal deep green eyes that met his own, for the first time since that cold goodbye at the barge, six months previously. "and my name is Nancy. Nancy Turner."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews! Since you asked so nicely, here is a little bit more.**

* * *

They stop by her apartment to abandon the basket of shopping. It is pleasant, open plan and airy, very white. Not at all what he pictures for her. Orange trees grow in the communal garden, and the steps up to it are coated with the pinky lilac flowers from the Judas tree that overhangs them. There is no suggestion of a breeze, and the scent from the flowers hangs heavily in the air. He stands by the door as she goes in, and she doesn't invite him to do otherwise. Now he finds himself with her, alone - he doesn't know where to start. There is so much he has to tell her. So much he never said.

She catches a glimpse of him standing at the door, taking in all that is visible of her personal space. The low, cat hair-covered sofa, the books strewn everywhere, a bowl of hyacinth, heliotrope and bougainvillea just beginning to wilt. The watercolours of local flowers are all slightly off-angle, and unconsciously, she tries to straighten one, before noticing the smile playing about his lips. Those lips. But no, she mustn't stare. Looking away from his face, she remembers why they are here. She has put the basket on the table in front of the sofa, and from there she puts the groceries away haphazardly, carrying one too many thing in her arms and causing a clatter as they all fall. As she tries to stop the tomatoes from escaping underneath the counter, an orange rolls over towards his feet. Even the fruit is conspiring against her. He stoops to pick the offending citrus up, and rolls it in his hands.

He cannot help but smile. Some things do not change, and now she is flustered, just like she was the very first time he saw her.

"May I?" He motions to come in to the flat.

"Of course." Her eyes catch his momentarily, she's still bent over gathering the shopping together. The room is much cooler than outside, and he realises that the temperature has risen swiftly. He no longer doubts the imminence of the storm. There is a fruit bowl on the counter, and he adds the orange to it. A lemon is resting by his left foot, and as he picks it up, he spots a roll of seeded bread a few paces away - in stepping to rescue it, he collides with her on the same mission, and finds himself grasping her arms as they steady themselves. The closeness is exhilarating. Searching for breath, they separate a step or two. He picks up the roll.

"Sorry. Bread. Should have looked where I was going. Damn!" He has had this image in his head of when... if he would see her again, what he would say, what she would say, how it would all be alright. How nothing that had happened would matter. And none of it does matter. But he was forgetting the inability on either of their accounts to actually open themselves to the possibilities. "I should wait by the door, not get in the way." "No, no. It's fine. It was my fault. Don't..." So she continues putting the grocery away, forcing herself in to familiar actions, and he doesn't move.

"Right. Vantage point. Come on then." She is standing before him, looking up in to his eyes, a steady sure glance, almost eager. His heart skips a beat.

"You're not wearing any shoes. Why aren't you wearing any shoes?"

"I like to walk barefoot, especially where I'm taking you."

"But...spiders, snakes... Aren't you afraid?"

"I have faced things, and done things, that would strike fear in to the heart of any normal person. Why should I be afraid of a little discomfort?" There is a twinkle in her eye, and a coyness about her manner as she responds while locking the door. "Besides which, there aren't any poisonous spiders round here, and Adders will hear us coming. You should be more concerned for yourself."

"Why?"

"I bet you haven't put adequate insect repellent on. The mosquitoes here are vicious." The Judas flowers are dancing round her toes as she walks down the steps, looking back at him coming a few paces behind her. The heat out here has intensified, even in the few short minutes they were inside. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back, and wonders how she looks so fresh and cool. Acclimatisation, he supposes. As they walk out of the gate, out from the shade of the orange trees, the sunlight hits his back like a sledgehammer. But they cross the road and she leads him on to a small goat path through an olive grove. They walk in silence, single file, and it almost feels like swimming, the air is so thick and heavy. Occasionally, she glances back at him, her smile toying about her lips. Every moment feels like a life age.

She knows the path well, through the grove and up the hill known as the Kastro. It is steep, but not dangerous, and she has no doubt that they will reach the ruined acropolis on the brow of the hill just in time for the storm to break. It seems appropriate that this hill was long dedicated to Athena, patron of heroes, justice, skilled endeavour and courage. Maybe she will tell him its history, some day, sitting underneath a shady tree, drinking white burgundy. But now she gives her thought to the climb ahead. The heat is beginning to get to her too. She's glad she thought to put on a shady hat; glad too that her bare arms are already well seasoned with so much time spent out of doors. Her skirt hem is picking up all sorts of twigs and leaves - but she moves silently, an art she's always been proud of.

How had he never noticed her skill for moving silently? It would be almost frightening, if it wasn't so engaging. He finds himself tripping over occasional roots, his eyes are that focused on her. The path is really quite steep now, and he's aware that he is so very out of practice. What comes of sitting behind a desk, giving orders, for so many years. Once upon a time, this would not have phased him in the slightest... but now? That said, the thrill of being there, not knowing where he was going, following her... His senses were ripe for that kind of activity.

She emerges from the path on to the flat top of the acropolis, occasional paving stones, and the vague remnants of a tower are all that is left of a hill that had been a sacred space, and then a small fortress. While they were under the trees, the sky has darkened - it is still blue, per say, but now it is deep navy, indigo almost. Thick grey clouds curl down off the Taygetos mountains and a silvery haze hangs in the sky over the inky sea. She spins in sheer joy at the splendour of it all, this place; this day; this moment.

He steps out on to the even ground to see her twirling, barefoot, skirt flung out, arms outstretched, head lifted to the sky. He cannot move, cannot blink, cannot miss a moment of this. Never has he seen her so happy. So alive. So free.

The thunder rolls. It falls down the mountains, separates around the acropolis, rushes out to sea and is pushed back, a tidal wave of noise above, around them. On and on it roars, till he cannot believe it could continue. They stand, facing each other a yard or two apart, panting slightly, heads raised to the heavens. And then it stops.

Within moments, the sky is rent by lightening, a convulsive gash of purple and deep teal, making the red tiled rooftops of the village jump towards the sky in contrast. In that second of light, her eyes are lit up, greener than a rainforest, more liquid than absinthe. Her skin glows. It would take his breath away, but he doesn't seem to have any.

Then silence. Stillness. So still it seems almost wrong to move, as if it would displace the molecules of the air and change the world. But his eyes are alight with a flame she has never seen, and his lips are slightly parted, slightly moist. She can almost feel his breath moving through the atmosphere. A few drops of perspiration remain on his forehead, and his arms are loosely open, palms turned towards her.

She is in his arms, held tightly against him, closer than they have ever been. A heavy drop lands on his hat. Then another. And another. He doesn't care. Hat brims merge, thunder caresses them, electricity jitters through the sky, and they are soaked to the skin, but he doesn't care, because her hands are on his back, her lips are touching his, and he could stay like this forever.


End file.
